


oh, aquarius

by anyarysm



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco absolutely hating that he's getting feelings, F/M, Hermione and Draco are nerds who make out in the library like they're teenagers, Pansy is the mean friend, RON AND DAPHNE SEXTING
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 07:35:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13677171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anyarysm/pseuds/anyarysm
Summary: “You like her.”Draco chokes on his sweetened venti Youthberry™ at the absurdity of what he’d just heard. He’s having a late lunch at a crowded Starbucks with Pansy Parkinson who, despite the lack of free space, has commandeered a table supposedly for four with only a designer satchel and sheer presence. She’s smirking from behind her americano, and he remembers why he’s been avoiding her. She’s anasshole.“Jesus Christ, I’m not a child.”





	oh, aquarius

**Author's Note:**

> Total wish-fulfillment. Warnings for language. Features Pansy being a great friend, and Ron x Daphne if you squint. Written for the @slytherdornet Feburary challenge on Tumblr. You can also read this [there](http://arxturusblack.tumblr.com/post/170864645323/oh-aquarius).

Hermione Granger is an inconvenience.

The first time she walks through the door—in an oversized men’s button-down and cuffed jeans and distressed oxfords and she’s technically not his type, _god—_ he digs his heels in, grinds his teeth, and says _no, abso-fucking-lutely not._

Professor McGonagall had given him an _incomplete_ for International Law and World Order—absolutely wrecked his GPA—and told him he had to attend the second half of her classes for the next term. He’d turned in stellar papers, had perfect attendance, and okay, so maybe he played Devil’s advocate and argued for strongman dictators in specific nations, but it was one fucking time. He’s pretty sure he should have been protected by academic freedom. 

So he shows up, okay. Picks a seat near the center aisle. His laptop’s out, he’s re-read the assigned selections. There’s nothing quite as effective as the need to prove people wrong to drive a Malfoy. He’s the poster boy for petty. And then—and _then—_ she fucking _swans_ through the door. He exhibits symptoms for arrhythmia when their eyes lock. He chokes.

It’s all pretty much downhill from there.

Like he said. A goddamn inconvenience.

 

 

 

[thought i’d pretend i wasn’t bothered1]

He’s running for Latin honors, he doesn’t have time for this. He’s an adult, for crying out loud. He can compromise and take the 3.5 if McGonagall would offer it, honestly, if it meant not ever speaking up in that godforsaken class ever again. Because the few times he _does_? Brutal isn’t even half of it.

 _That Granger girl_ (said like that, spat out, with vehemence)—she’s a monster at international relations. Probably has something to do with her half-white upper middle-class perspective that every neoliberal millennial aspires to. There’s a viciousness there that he’s trained to look for, and conviction, too, in the hollow below her bottom lip. He’s never sure if he’s listening for holes in her logic or staring at her mouth.

“—signals the construction of new structures, but at what cost? Sure, some things should not be up for debate—” she says.

He rolls his eyes. 

“But the appeal is something we recognize as a collective people. That is, to accept that we are to be beyond good and evil? It’s appealing that there are no absolutes on which we’ll be judged or held against. That’s the human predisposition, to surpass what previous generations thought to be ancient or divine. We aspire to be larger.”   

“Not by doing away with the past, with context. What Eliot delineates as tradition. Even deconstruction requires structure, process. And undermining the image of judicial impartiality sets a dangerous precedent because there will always be staunch advocates across the board. Man, when separated from law and justice, is the worst of all.” 

And the worst part is? 

He agrees with her. He operates with instructions, within structures. But he can’t help but want to pick a fight—and he knows, okay, even without dignifying their professor with a glance, that McGonagall is fucking electrified that her pet student is decimating his arguments, so he pretty much just shuts up after that. Formulates a plan. Resolves to stick to it. Ignores her and keeps his head down and turns in papers that are exactly what those— _fascists—_ want to read of him.

Draco, he’s well-versed enough in the specifics of his own sense of self-preservation to know that he can be exhaustive about things like this, so—

He stops engaging.

Fucking stops _arguing_. 

It’s tolerable purgatory until Granger notices and starts trying to provoke a response out of him. Starts demanding his attention with a mocking rise of a brow, a jerk of her chin. 

And his Wellesley girl mother raised him to be polite—to be civil, because it’s just as much a weapon—but he’s fucking weak, okay. He glares and rolls his eyes and looks away.

Dry swallows two Ultram tablets.

Pinches the bridge of his nose.

He’s too old for this shit.

 

 

 

“You _like_ her.”

Draco chokes on his sweetened venti Youthberry™ at the  _absurdity_ of what he’d just heard. He’s having a late lunch at a crowded Starbucks with Pansy Parkinson who, despite the lack of free space, has commandeered a table supposedly for four with only a designer satchel and sheer presence. She’s smirking from behind her americano, and he remembers why he’s been avoiding her. She’s an _asshole_.

“Jesus Christ, I’m not a child.” 

“You just spent half of the last thirty minutes abusing her and the other half practically orgasming from whatever it is you nerds talk about,” Pansy deadpans. “ _Dude, I can’t believe this girl, she’s such a dick. I love how witty she is._ I don’t know if you want to fuck her or fight her. I’m pretty sure it’s both. At the same time.2 Is she hot?”

He rolls his eyes. Mindlessly catalogs the messy hair, the downturned mouth. _Pretty_ , he notes almost distantly, maybe around the eyes a little, or just because she looks almost distant, almost unreachable. Not special, just— _not to be had._ The fact in the case is, Hermione Granger is what most people would call an acquired taste. There’s something particularly arresting about her—but she’s not beautiful, not outright. Yet sometimes, the light hits her a certain way and his chest hurts.

“She’s okay.” 

Pansy narrows her eyes. Breathes loudly through her nose like she’s planning on storing it. _Grins._ “You’re a wuss”—and there’s a threat of a laugh as she says it, a hint at derision so familiar now that it’s more affection than anything else—“It’s like you literally can’t help but give yourself away.”

He rolls his eyes. “No, but I’m doing okay, right? I’m fucking alright. I don’t need this, it’s an inconvenience. She’s a distraction at best, and a complication at worst, and my grades are suffering—STOP LAUGHING, I’m serious—she’s got this thing she does when she knows I have her up against a wall, she purses her lips then wets it. It’s a fucking power move. It’s _obscene_. She only does it to mess me up, I swear—” 

Pansy stares up at him, bites her lip.

Draco pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I’m so fucked.”

She laughs.

 

 

 

After that, it’s strategic avoidance.

He starts sitting near the door so he’s the first one out, in what he hopes is the opposite direction of wherever she finds herself. Does the bare minimum in class participation (and he is, perhaps, overcompensating with the papers—sleeps a maximum of 2.3 hours a day—but that’s another story). 

 _Blocks_ Pansy Parkinson on the phone, which is the best decision he’s ever made in his entire life.

He thinks it’s going spectacularly well until Hermione calls his attention after class one day. He took a five-minute power nap towards the end of the lecture—and got away with it too, because McGonagall has mercifully started ignoring him after he shut up—and was scrambling to get his things in order when her shadow fell over him. He knew, before looking up, who it was, if only because his luck is shit.

She smells like _Mon Guerlain_ through the vague Starbucks scent you get when you’ve been there the whole night. He thinks, perhaps a little bitterly, that they’re probably more similar than he cares to examine.

“Do we have a problem?” she asks, directly, because there’s apparently no pretenses with this girl. 

He leans back, sprawls and crosses his legs and attempts to make himself seem bigger because—it’s _unfair_ that she looms largely over him and he’s just a nuisance for not giving her fodder. Stares up at her with a blankness he’s crafted to intimidate. “I don’t think so, no, Granger.”

She raises an eyebrow. “So you’re normally this hostile?”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware I was hurting your feelings by ignoring you. Pointedly. My _sincerest_ apologies, I hope to one day make restitution.” 

Her jaw drops.

He looks away.

“You’re a dick,” she informs him, huffs and walks away and mutters. She probably thinks she’s out of ear shot but Draco can make out “—prettiest faces happen to the worst people, I swear to God—”

He doesn’t know how to feel about that.

 

 

 

[mind isn’t treating me quite as kindly3]

It’s the last week before finals, and like every overworked college student on the verge of a breakdown, Draco Malfoy has been staring at the blank screen for the past hour. He’s on his fourth cup of coffee. He’s starting to hear his heartbeats like it’s in the next room. His mother had called him the night before, stating her worries like she’s reading them off a list, because Snape had told them that he’d asked for an increased Adderall dosage.

His father just reminded him to make sure he won’t get caught.

He’s only vaguely aware when Hermione Granger arrives with some friends—a scruffy redhead he’s pretty sure is in one of his psych electives, and the Mess™ from the soccer team that’s exactly Pansy’s type—and sits near him. He sits up just a little straighter. It’s just as well, it’s already an awful day.

He looks like a _hobo_. He’s unshaved, and a mess, and his Lacoste cotton button-down is rolled up to his elbows and creased in seventy-six places. And it’s not like he wants to impress her, he’s not a teenager with a crush, but he’s a _Malfoy_. He has a rep to protect. Some of his older professors still swoon whenever his father is brought up.

But _whatever_ , you know. 

“—Daphne has been ignoring my phone calls. She’s driving me insane. One minute, she’s sending me _what are you wearing_ texts, and the next—”

“Daphne _Greengrass_?” the other guy asks.

His ears perk up. 

“It’s insulting that you’re surprised, Harry.”

“Here’s a thought, Ron: maybe don’t kiss and tell,” she says.

“I’m trying to ask for advice. It’s not like I’m gloating about it.”

Hermione sighs, leans back and crosses her arms across her chest and he absolutely cannot believe why he’s paying this much attention to the most insignificant of gestures. “A person offers a little constructive criticism and a person gets lectured on the nature of things.4”

Draco freezes. _Did she just—?_

He lets out a laugh in disbelief.

He does it _loudly._

Like it’s choreographed, all three of them look in his direction, with varying degrees of annoyance coloring their features. It’s a revelation when Hermione registers it’s him, though, because something shifts. Refits and colors and _blooms_. The sensation is referred in his body. He’s intellectually aware he should look away but he doesn’t—at least, until he comes to his senses.

He slams his laptop shut. Gathers his notes and his phone and his pens, all but dumps them in his satchel. The sound his chair makes when he abruptly stands is the loudest thing on earth. If Pansy were here, her laughter would be louder, but she isn’t, which—thank God for small favors, _honestly._

He mutters a weak apology as he passes them.

He’s almost out the door when he trips.

 

 

 

 

> **22:13** _lemme get this str8_
> 
> **22:13** _she’s into the same obscure nerd stuff ur into_
> 
> **22:13** _& it seems like she’s, idk, into you as well ???_
> 
> **22:14** _just bone already, man_
> 
> **23:00** I stand by the fact that I don’t even like her.
> 
> **23:03** _oh, sweetheart_

 

Draco hasn’t been to Starbucks in the last three days. The amount of self-control has to mean something. Where’s his gold star?

He’s been hiding out in the library, and he’s convinced himself that he’ll be grateful one day for the terrifying single-mindedness he has shown. 23,000 words with only about 4 hours of sleep total? He’s going to be unstoppable when he graduates, just as long as he doesn’t _die_.

He’s grabbing a Said when—

“So. _The House of Yes_ , huh?”

He maybe jumps a little, most definitely drops the book. “Jesus Christ.”

She looks well-rested, despite the hell week. Has on a loose button-down that should be unflattering, but it’s undone a button or so from halfway to reveal flimsy lace and clavicle. Her mouth’s a glossy peach and it’s curled a little too precisely to the right to be genuine. She’s _killing_ him.

And Draco, he’s a logical guy, right. He knows to cut his losses. Knows that he’d probably feel less tired if he just admitted that Pansy was right. But he has to look out for himself. Has to weigh and hedge bets and maybe not ask someone to waltz when he has two left feet. Rejection is a possible answer to the question he doesn’t even know how to ask. Doesn’t know if he _can_ ask. 

He clears his throat. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t eavesdropping.”

She shrugs, saunters towards him. She’s near enough now for him to realize she’s tiny. _Delicate._ She an inch or so from reaching his chin. He pockets the knowledge and swallows. His heart is beating loud enough for it to be embarrassing, but she looks minutely unsure and it’s electrifying. His eyes flick to her mouth.

“Look—”

He’d be lying if he says he doesn’t know what came over him. It’s so easy, so _reckless_ , closing the distance and forcing nearness, an ineffectual touch-and-go slide of his lips against hers. He kisses her again, softly, a hint at motion. If he’d been focusing on anything other than the sensation, he would have marveled at the evidence of her complicity in what they’re building between them. Her hand has crept up to his chest. His find her hips. 

She pulls back a little while later, and he moves to close the distance a snap-quick second before it registers—she’s smirking and it’s smug until it spreads into a full-blown smile he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready for—“Is this why you were being such an assho—”

“ _Shut up,_ ” he mutters, holds her face between both hands and pulls her back to him. After that is a kind of surging.

 

 

 

Things work out after that.

McGonagall gives him a 4.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 Hitt, M. (2014). You Keep Showing Up. [Recorded by Drowners]. On _Drowners_ [MP3] New York, New York: Frenchkiss Records
> 
> 2 @provocative-envy. (2015). “Bite Marks”. In _Chaos Theory._ Pacific Northwest: Archive of Our Own.
> 
> 3 Hitt, M. (2016). Conversations With Myself. [Recorded by Drowners]. On _On Desire_ [MP3] New York, New York: Frenchkiss Records  
> 4 MacLeod, W. (1996). The House of Yes. San Francisco.


End file.
